lunches from my sweetheart the drunk

So, as previously mentioned, my girlfriend got blitzed and made food at 3am in a frenzy of culinary performance art.  I finally had the chance to taste the meal for which our kitchen was destroyed.

I must admit, I expected it to be terrible… a labor of love, if you will.  Somehow, in her innebriated glory, A. managed to pull off a tasty meal; I will now try to guess how it was made and from what.

I believe this meal was prepared in three pans.  One in which peeled potatos sat sizzling in butter, another where cauliflower was sauteed (Also, I presume, in butter as it was as rich as the potatos), and a third where rice, after cooking in the rice cooker, was presumably oiled, semi-fried and seasoned.  Either that, or the rice was simply added to another pan when it was time for mixing.  The seasonings to me seemed to be something along the lines of Basil and “Cajun” mixed.  The flecks of orange were originally thought to be our oft used and beloved cayenne, but alas, with as much orange as was visible, it was not spicy enough to be.  This will probably be my first error.  It had the slightest hint of indian food which made me think curry, but if it was used it was slight.

Over all it was a very satisfying mix of three things I like prepared by a loving drunk woman.  I would eat it again, with a little salt or hot sauce, perhaps.  Soy maybe?

Thanks A.  I will try to have the dishes done before you get home

the drunks strike again

A. and I had taken a short hiatus from playing Risk, one of our favorite pastimes.  Since the move we have played twice.  The first time we just gave up half way through with no clear winner.  The second time I won by concession.  I had a long day yesterday so the beer consumed while playing Risk not only made me drunk, but rather tired.  I went to bed, apparently unannounced, much to A.’s dismay.

When I awoke this morning it was raining, which was quite pleasant.  I laid in bed for another half hour enjoying the calm and cool.  Finally it was time to head to the shower.  I knew she had made lunches for us, so I figured there would be some dishes to do.  But…

When I passed into the kitchen I beheld every dish, spatula, pot and pan we owned piled Burton-esquely in the sink.  I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the floor looked a shade darker than normal.  Had there been an oregano fight?  Was A. secretly cleaning and packing weed whilst I slept?  In order to cross the kitchen to the bathroom I first needed to sweep the floor.  To my bare feet it felt like walking on mulched leaves.

I was, at this point, rather curious about what the result of this havoc would be.  It sits calling my name in the break-room fridge as I type.  I will add another post later after it has been critiqued.